by Simon Hawke
Blaize cocked his head. "Help? Help with what?"
"Catching a murderer. You interested?"
"I can give you all the details of the Los Angeles case, as well," said Modred, after he'd finished briefing Paul and Loomis on the necromantic murders in London's Whitechapel district. Though Paul knew the truth, of course, what Modred gave Loomis was a slightly edited version. He had learned long ago that the best lies are those that closely skirt the truth and what he told Loomis was essentially what had really happened in Whitechapel, though he left out any mention of the Dark Ones. Instead, he blamed the killings on the mysterious and nameless necromantic cult he had invented.
"I was involved with the Los Angeles Police Department in an advisory capacity during the investigation of those killings," he told Loomis. "The Bureau agent who was in charge of that case knew that we'd had very similar killings in London and, as a result, I was brought in to consult with the investigating officers. In the beginning, the police in Los Angeles believed that what they were dealing with was a psychopath, a single serial killer working alone. In fact, that's also what we had believed, at first, when the killings began in Whitechapel. However, it did not take us long to reach the same conclusions as you did. That there was necromancy involved. And the Los Angeles police came to those same conclusions, as well."
"The pattern was the same?" asked Loomis.
"Virtually identical," Modred replied. "In Whitechapel, as in Los Angeles, the initial victims were prostitutes."
"Only neither of our victims were hookers," Loomis pointed out. "They were both students."
"True," said Modred, "however, the common thread is nevertheless still there. Young females. In Whitechapel, as in Los Angeles, young prostitutes were the most easily vulnerable. From what I gather, you do not have much street prostitution in Santa Fe. But you do have a sizable population of young people, students at the university, many of whom are often out after dark. Santa Fe is not the sort of city where a young woman would be afraid to walk the streets at night alone."
"Yeah, well, at least it used to be," said Loomis dryly. "Go on."
They were sitting at a small table in the back of a café. Modred paused while the waitress brought more coffee, then continued.
"In our case, in London, the victims were all savagely mutilated. The runic markings that you saw carved into the body of that poor girl were identical to the ones our victims had."
"And they were the same as the ones in L.A.?" asked Loomis.
"The same," Modred replied. He paused to light a cigarette. He inhaled deeply and blew the smoke out through his nostrils. "In our case, the press caught on quite early in the game and quickly dubbed the killer the 'Ripper,' after a notorious and savagely brutal murderer who terrorized that same Whitechapel district back in the nineteenth century."
"You're not suggesting that—"
"No, no, of course not," Modred said. "The nineteenth-century killer, known as Jack the Ripper, was a sadistic serial killer with a detailed knowledge of anatomy. The weapons he used were surgical knives and he left his victims vivisected in a grisly manner. That killer, by the way, was never caught, but we caught our 'Ripper.' We were, unfortunately, never able to bring him to trial. He was killed resisting capture. And in the Ripper case of the nineteenth century, obviously, there was no necromancy involved. No runic symbols were carved into the bodies. However, the press seized upon the coincidence of the same location and the victims being mutilated and built the whole thing into a circus."
"I can imagine," Loomis said.
"In any case," Modred continued, "our investigation led us to believe that there was more than one individual involved. In fact, as it turned out, there were two. The second one died resisting arrest, as well. Yet, we still believe that there were more behind them. Approximately a year later, we were contacted in relation to a series of killings in Los Angeles, and I took a plane for California to consult with the L.A.P.D. on their investigation. The circumstances of the crimes were astonishingly similar. Too much so for it to be coincidence."
"No chance of it being a copycat killer?"
"That was considered," Modred replied, "however, as I said, approximately a year had elapsed between the killings we had and the killings in Los Angeles. Generally, so-called copycat killers strike much sooner than that, prompted by media attention. And our killings in England received no coverage in Los Angeles."
Loomis nodded.
"The scenario was almost identical," Modred continued, "however, their first victim was a little-known actress, perhaps a prostitute on the side, that was never fully established. The police had arrested her lover as a suspect, on purely circumstantial evidence. The man claimed to be innocent and denied any knowledge of the crime, but apparently, he must have known something that was a threat to the killer, because he was found murdered in jail. Literally torn to pieces inside his locked cell."
Loomis glanced at Paul. "A demon entity?"
Modred nodded. "Unquestionably. There was a strong presence of thaumaturgic trace emanations. Subsequently, there were more killings. Prostitutes, runaways, all young, all in roughly the same area, the district known as the Strip."
"Sunset Boulevard," said Loomis.
"Correct. The Investigation eventually led the Bureau field agent to a mission, a shelter operated on the Strip by an adept known as Brother Khasim, a self-styled monk who ran a charity operation for the street people of the district. The agent discovered a hidden subbasement underneath the mission, accessible by a concealed elevator in Brother Khasim's private quarters, where the saintly Brother Khasim kept a number of young women as enchanted sexual slaves. The discovery cost the agent his life. Khasim escaped and went on a killing rampage on Sunset Boulevard, which led to a pitched battle with the police, in which a number of officers were killed before Khasim was killed himself. But that was not the end of it. The details of this were never fully made public, but it seemed that Khasim was merely an underling. There were several other members of the cult who had established a base of operations in a section of the amusement park known as the Magic Kingdom that had been closed down for repairs. The authorities closed in and a mass killing was narrowly averted."
"What do you mean a mass killing?"
"The cult members were preparing to effect a spell that would have resulted in mass murder," Modred said. "In each case, the formula they had followed was the same. They would begin with isolated killings, gradually building up their power by absorbing the life energies of their victims, until they were sufficiently strong enough to attempt a spell that would claim hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives in one fell swoop."
"Jesus," Loomis said.
"They were stopped in Los Angeles," Modred continued, "but not long thereafter, similar killings started to occur in Paris. Again, the same pattern. There was more than one killer and the victims all had the same symbols carved into their torsos. Once again, they were stopped. Three of them were killed and a fourth managed to escape, only to surface again last year in Tokyo, where the same pattern was repeated."
"And none of these cult members were ever arrested?" Loomis asked.
"They are fanatics," Modred said. "They would not allow themselves to be taken alive."
Loomis sighed heavily. "It was bad enough knowing we had a serial killer who's a necromancer," he said. "Now you're telling me we've got some kind of international murder cult on our hands. And they're here, in Santa Fe." He glanced at Paul. "You said something about cults the other day, remember?"
Paul nodded. "Yes, I did. But until I spoke with Michael, I had no idea it could be anything like this."
"So the Bureau knows about this," Loomis said. "And they've managed to keep it quiet."
"Can you imagine what would happen if the existence of this cult were to become public knowledge?" Modred asked.
Loomis exhaled heavily. "Man, I don't even want to think about it. All we need is for someone like Ginny Fairchild to sniff this out and it'll really hit the
fan."
"Leave Miss Fairchild to me," said Modred.
"What does that mean?"
"The less you know, Joe, the less you may have to answer for," Modred replied.
"Hey, now wait a minute, Cornwall," Loomis protested. "What have you got on your mind? Ginny may be a reporter and she may be an occasional pain in the ass, but she's a straight-shooter and she's sort of a friend of mine. She agreed to keep quiet about Paul's sensitivity, didn't she? I don't want you trying anything funny with her, you understand?"
"No need to be alarmed," Modred reassured him. "No harm of any kind will come to her, I promise you. However, there are ways, if she were to discover anything, to simply induce her to forget what she had discovered."
Loomis pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I don't know. I don't like it."
"It would be only a last resort," said Modred. "But you must realize what a dangerous situation you have here. At the end of the week, you'll have your festival. The city will be full of people, celebrating in the streets all day and night for three days. It will present an ideal opportunity for the members of this cult to effect a spell of mass murder. Somehow, we must find them and stop them before then."
"Christ," said Loomis. "That doesn't give us much time. And we haven't got any damn leads at all. There's no way we'll be able to investigate all the adepts in this town before Friday. And the goddamn Bureau still hasn't responded to Paul's report. What the hell are those people doing? You'd think they'd send in an army of agents to deal with something like this!"
"And they very well may," said Modred. "Perhaps not an army, but certainly more than one."
"So where the hell are they? We're running out of time."
"There's a possibility that they may be here already," Modred said, "operating undercover."
"And they haven't bothered to contact me?" Loomis asked.
"I don't know," said Modred, improvising. "For obvious reasons, the open arrival of a group of Bureau field agents would be undesirable. They would attract attention. So it's possible that the Bureau has already responded to Paul's report. On the other hand, something may have gone wrong. The Bureau's been known to drop the ball. That report might have been misplaced."
"Terrific," Loomis said sourly. "So what the hell are we supposed to do meanwhile?"
"I have contacts in the Bureau," Modred said. "I'll look into it and find out what the situation is."
"Do that," said Loomis. "In the meantime, I'm not going to wait around to see what the Bureau's going to do. I'm putting every man I've got out in the streets tonight. And I'm going to interrogate every adept in town."
"You'll never get to them all by Friday," Paul said.
"I'll get to as many of them as I can," Loomis replied. "How long does it take for you to use that sensitivity of yours to check somebody out?"
Paul hesitated. "Only a matter of seconds, usually. Only I really don't know if that would be wise. I don't think it would be legal, for one thing, for you to act on information I might pick up telepathically."
"Dammit, Paul, we've got no choice!" said Loomis. "I haven't got anything else to go on. You're it, you're all I've got. If we start now, we might get lucky."
Paul glanced at Modred uncertainly. "I suppose you're right," he said. "There doesn't seem to be any other way . . ."
"Then it's settled," Loomis said. "Mike, if you can get through to your contacts at the Bureau and find out what the hell is going on, get on it. I'm going to go and set up a task force to cover the streets tonight and every night from now on. I'll have a car drop you off at your place, then I'll pick you up myself in one hour and we'll get started." He glanced at Modred. "Have you got a piece?"
"I have no permit to carry in the States," said Modred.
"Come on, Cornwall, don't rattle my chain. Have you got one or not?"
"A 10-mm Colt semiautomatic," Modred replied.
"You got it on you?"
Modred opened his coat to show the holster rig.
"Very nice," said Loomis. "I couldn't even spot it. My compliments to your tailor. I'll get you a permit for it. If anybody asks, you put in the request to me through Paul before you arrived here."
"I appreciate that," Modred said.
"Right. I'll see you in about an hour."
Paul sighed after Loomis had left and glanced at Modred. "I hope you know what you're doing," he said. "Between Loomis and the Bureau, you're burning your candle at both ends. What was all that about contacting the Bureau and undercover agents?"
"I was thinking of passing Kira off as an undercover Bureau field agent," Modred said. "Her cover will be that she is a sorceress attending the convention this weekend and Billy will be her apprentice."
"She's much too young to be a sorceress. And what happens when the real Bureau field agent shows up?" asked Paul.
"I haven't quite worked that part out yet," Modred replied.
"Do you really have contacts in the Bureau?"
"Yes, several, but they are unofficial ones."
"What does that mean?"
"It means," Modred replied, "that we can expect only a limited amount of cooperation on their part. They will provide what help they can, but they will not take foolish chances. They cannot reveal that they know me, nor can they reveal what they know about the Dark Ones. In other words, if I were to get in over my head with the Bureau, I'd be on my own."
"That doesn't sound very encouraging," said Paul.
"Not to worry," Modred replied with a smile. "Both the Bureau and the I.T.C. have been trying to catch me for years and they've never even come close. Besides, all I have to do is shapechange back to Wyrdrune and they'll never find me."
"Yes, but they'll find me," said Paul. "This body is the only one I've got and while I could change my appearance, I do have a career in this town. I'd hate to lose it. Trying to deal with the Dark Ones is bad enough, but putting yourself at odds with the Bureau and misleading the police . . ." Paul shook his head. "I just hope you know what you're doing, that's all."
"At the moment, I'm playing it by ear," said Modred. "My chief concern right now is to make sure that neither the Bureau nor the police get in our way. And that's going to require a certain amount of finesse. You see, Paul, neither the Bureau nor the police will stand a chance against the Dark Ones, not unless they are incredibly lucky. Immortals can be killed, but it's extremely difficult. A mortal would only be able to do it if he caught one of them off guard. And not even the senior mages of the I.T.C. could hope to match the thaumaturgic powers of the Dark Ones. Only the runestones can do that. Our first priority has to be to find the Dark Ones and stop them, which means they have to be destroyed. That's something I'd never be able to explain to Loomis. I know his sort. He'll insist on trying to arrest the killer or killers, if there's more than one, and have them brought to trial. And that will only get him killed. We're stuck with Loomis, so we're going to have to work around him."
"Except now we'll have to accompany him on his investigation from now until the fiesta starts," said Paul. "And I'll have to use my gift on everyone we question. There seems to be no way around that and I thought that's exactly what you wanted to avoid."
"Don't worry, we can avoid it," Modred said. "You won't have to use your sensitivity. If we get anywhere near a Dark One or one of their acolytes, the runestones will let us know. You won't have to read anybody's mind. Just pretend to. If the runestones don't react, you'll tell Loomis that adept is not a suspect."
"And if they do react?" asked Paul.
"Then we'll have found our necromancer."
They discussed recent developments over dinner after the police car had dropped Modred and Paul off. Modred shapechanged back to Wyrdrune as soon as they got inside the house and they sat studying the street map of Santa Fe, trying to familiarize themselves with the city, while Broom got dinner ready. Gomez was still out, recruiting cats for night patrol.
"You don't think you told Loomis too much?" asked Kira.
"Modred told L
oomis as much of the truth as possible without telling him all of it," said Wyrdrune. "Loomis is a good man. He's not about to be intimidated by this thing. We have to drive back to meet him after dinner, so we can start helping him question some of the local adepts. My biggest worry right now is that Bureau field agent. We still don't know when he's due in, but he could throw a monkey wrench into the whole works."
"She," said Kira. "We heard from Makepeace while you were gone. Mona tapped the Bureau operations files and called Archimedes. They've assigned a sorceress named Megan Leary to the case. Archimedes got the Bureau file on her from Mona, but we need a computer and modem to get it and Paul hasn't got one here."
"Wait a minute," Paul said. "You can access Bureau files? How? And who is this Mona?"
"It's a bit complicated, Paul," said Merlin. "You remember Archimedes, don't you?"
"No," said Paul, frowning. "Who is he?"
"Oh, yes, that's right," said Merlin, "that was after your time. When I was named Dean Emeritus, the faculty presented me with a small personal thaumaturgic computer, which I named Archimedes, in honor of my familiar from the old days."
"Ah, yes, the owl," said Paul.
"Well, we've had some work done to Archimedes, to upgrade him somewhat," Merlin continued, "and, well, as I said, it's a complicated story, but Archimedes has, uh, established a relationship, you might say, with Mona, the hyperdimensional matrix computer in the service of General Hyperdynamics of Colorado Springs. And Mona, very unofficially, of course, gives Archimedes access to anything he wants."
"Good Lord!" said Paul. "You've actually managed to suborn a hyperdimensional matrix computer?"
"Well . . . not exactly," Wyrdrune replied. "We don't have any control over what Mona does. But she likes Archimedes and if Archimedes asks her for something, she usually gives it to him."
"But . . . classified Bureau files?" asked Paul, deeply shocked.